


picasso's color palette, put to shame

by danmeian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also no beta we die like Jason Todd, Angst, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dean's age isn't specified, Degradation, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Filthy, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Insert any male you like, Jk the Whump is the plot, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Leg Humping, M/M, Or simply Noncon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Sam Winchester's Lucky Charms, This is trash, Vomiting, Whump, Y'all going to hell, also, but yeah..., can't forget Gagging, gagging, this is filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danmeian/pseuds/danmeian
Summary: Now that he is mouthing the wordwreckedtwice in his head, it suddenly sounds lovely, wrapping around his tongue and curling around the guy’s cock like a lover’s embrace. And yet,wrecked wrecked wrecked, there we go, three times, and the lovely word suddenly sounds made-up, no power and no meaning.But all words are made up, Dean, Sammy eats a spoonful of Lucky Charms, haughty Mr. Know-it-all straight-haired Hermione.All words are made up.Dean Dean Dean. Love love love. Home home home. No power and no meaning.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	picasso's color palette, put to shame

It’s a dark alley. The kind with no street light and a few too many beer cans lying on the ground — the kind you would expect to see in B-graded slasher movies that screams cheap and misogynistic, the kind where there is a guy thrusting into Dean’s mouth, jamming down his throat, with his hands clutching painfully on Dean’s hair, and his hips freely snapping without a care, which is only fair because there isn’t any _FRAGILE, THIS SIDE UP_. 

Dean’s face is wrecked, tears and snots and saliva and cum dripping while his eyes struggle to open beneath the thick soiled eyelashes. His hands are clutching aimlessly at the guys’ pants as if clutching onto life itself, because fuck it if his entire existence right now isn’t also wrecked. Now that he is mouthing the word _wrecked_ twice in his head, it suddenly sounds lovely, wrapping around his tongue and curling around the guy’s cock like a lover’s embrace. And yet, _wrecked wrecked wrecked_ , there we go, three times, and the lovely word suddenly sounds made-up, no power and no meaning. _But all words are made up, Dean_ , Sammy eats a spoonful of Lucky Charms, haughty Mr. Know-it-all straight-haired Hermione. _All words are made up_. Dean Dean Dean. Love love love. Home home home. No power and no meaning.

The guy spills into his throat, pulls out, gives a throaty groan, then pushes his cock down Dean’s throat one more time for old times sake. Fucker then pulls the flaccid member out completely, only to shoves it in again half a dozen times, because why not when there is a wet tight hole conveniently waiting to be used? Funnily enough, it’s these slow half-hearted jabs that trigger Dean’s forsaken gag reflex instead of the throat-hammering performance earlier. And apparently the jabs do that just a bit too well, because a few seconds later, Dean is gagging up and puking right onto the man’s shoes. Classic Dean, always making a fucking damn mess, last time bullets dropping in the ground right in the middle of the hunt with dad that almost costs Sammy his life, this time a pile of green-yellow piss and phlegm masterfully diluted by the innocuous white shade of cum. _This guy’s cock puts Picasso’s color palette to shame_ , Dean wants to laugh at his attempt at pretentious rhetoric; he also kinda wants to lie down and sob at the same time, because _fuck Sam and his smart cubism books Dean misses him and he doesn’t want to be here and he just wants to go home_.

“Lick it up,” the guy says, and Dean does, his tongue painstakingly licking up the leather, while his swollen lips slurping up the mess.

“Clean it with your groin,” the man commands, and then there is Dean, humping his clothed leaking cock on the shoes until they are as shiny as those in the stores. The friction is more than good, and Dean feels like a bitch in heat polishing its master’s shoes with a sloppy cunt. And God if that thought doesn’t make him even impossibly more turned on. His jerky thrusts become more and more erratic, shorter and faster every time. For one moment there is no rhythm and the only thing Dean can hear is his heartbeat, stanched in the stale smell of cum. His mind is hazy and misty and hot and—

—and Dean is soiling his jeans with the fucker’s shoed heels digging painfully into his spasming cock, soiling the 20 dollar bill crumbled in his left pocket which Dean will dig out tomorrow as the cashier chews on her pink bubblegum, to pay for pasta, canned beans, a six-pack of beer, and a box of Lucky Charms.


End file.
